Black belched contentedly, as if the sight of all that ham reminded him of the portion he had eaten himself. He leaned over and said quietly, “I count eleven.”
“Not all fighters, though,” Arlian muttered in reply—he could see a young boy among the others, and two women who looked too frail to be warriors of any sort. “Where’s Drisheen?”
“I don’t see him,” Rime said.
“Blast it!” Arlian replied. “Where is he, then?”
Just then the door opened again and a guardsman entered, followed by an elaborately dressed lord, a feathered hat in his hand.
“There he is,” Rime said.
Drisheen paused in the doorway, nose in the air, and surveyed the room. Then he flourished his hat as if waving away an unpleasant odor and stepped inside.
A faint scent reached Arlian, a sweet, cloying scent that was oddly familiar. He frowned, trying to place it.
Then it came back to him, in a sudden wave of memory—falling in through Sweet’s window, tumbling onto the floor of a room that stank of perfume, where he had abruptly gone from the cold and empty outside world to the comforting warmth of a woman’s arms.
Sweet had opened the window to air out the room, to get rid of the stench of Lord Drisheen’s perfume—and Lord Drisheen.
He had smelled it again in Manfort, once or twice—most recently, very faintly, when he had seen Sparkle and Ferret hanging in Drisheen’s library.
And that same smell was present now. In Westguard it had been diluted by the scent of powder and cloth and oil and of course Sweet herself, while here it was mixed with beer and bread and smoke and meat and sweat, but it was unmistakably the same smell.
The memory of Sweet’s smiling face and cheerful giggle hung there for a moment, then gave way to the sight of her lying pale and still in the bed beside him, eyes closed but mouth slack and open.
He felt his teeth clench, a growl rising in his throat as his eyes followed Drisheen’s progress across the room.
“Hush!” Rime hissed.
Arlian caught himself. “Sorry,” he said.
Drisheen had reached the table where Toribor and Stonehand sat, and was standing there as they turned to look up at him. Arlian strained to hear what was said.
Thirif, across the table, crushed a tiny blue vial in his hand, and suddenly Arlian’s hearing sharpened.
“I have placed wards on the road, on the trees, and on the entire town,” Drisheen said. “If any dragonheart enters this place, we will know it.”
Arlian glanced at Rime, who mouthed, “We’re already here.”
“Good,” Toribor said. “Have a seat, my lord, and eat something.” He gestured at an empty chair.
“In good time. I would hear, first, whether you have any explanation for the failure of our trap. Do you think your men were so clumsy that he saw us before we saw him, and turned aside therefore?”
Toribor shook his head. “No,” he said. “I think he’s just cagy. He guessed that we might have set traps upon the high road, and found another route.”
Drisheen frowned as he tucked his hat under his arm. “And what do you propose to do about this?”
“I don’t know what we can do,” Toribor said with a shrug. “If you have suggestions I will be delighted to hear and consider them, but left to my own devices I’d say we’ve missed him, that he chose to bypass us and he’s now Enziet’s problem.”
“And this doesn’t trouble you? We were put here to stop him. We have a dozen soldiers; Enziet is alone.”
“Alone or not, do you really think he can’t handle a stripling like Lanair? Toribor gestured at the table. “Sit down and have a drink!”
“You sound almost pleased to have avoided a fight,” Drisheen said, still standing.
“I am—almost. I’d rather have it over with, but that boy has the luck of a dragon. Remember, he killed Iron and Kuruvan. Mishaps can happen anywhere, and even facing a dozen men he might have found a way to do you or me harm before he died.”
“Yet you aren’t troubled about letting him find Enziet?”
“Enziet has the luck of a dozen dragons,” Toribor answered.
“Or the skill,” Drisheen said.
“Or the skill,” Toribor agreed. “Now, I beg you, my lord, do sit down!”
Drisheen reluctantly yielded; he circled around, tossed his hat on the table, and seated himself.
“Do you have any suggestions, my lord?” Toribor asked, as Drisheen beckoned to a serving maid.
“Only that we wait here, and send our best men to trail Enziet and warn him, or aid him against Lanair.”
Stonehand glanced at Toribor, a motion that Drisheen noticed. “Yes, our best man would be you,” he said.
Arlian considered that. It probably meant that Stonehand would be alone on the road …
“Send him alone?” Toribor asked. “And what if Stonehand here happens upon Lord Lanair?”
Drisheen shrugged. “Why would Lanair wish an ordinary soldier ill? I assume Stonehand is capable of discretion and stealth, and can defend himself if pressed.”
“We could send another man with him…”
“And another, and another, and before you know it we’ll all be on the road, chasing after our murderous lordling, and probably missing him entirely. A man travels fastest when he travels alone.”
Toribor frowned. “I suppose that’s true.”
“I can handle him,” Stonehand said.
“That’s what Lord Iron thought,” Drisheen said. “And Kuruvan before him. No, while you can take your chance if you see it, your first duty is simply to warn Enziet, then return and tell us what, if anything, you saw along the road. We missed the boy in one direction, but perhaps we’ll catch him going the other.”
“As you say, my lord,” Stonehand said, bowing his head in obedience.
“You don’t suppose Lanair could have been hidden in that wagon, do you?” Toribor asked.
Drisheen held up his hand and pointed at Arlian, who tried hard to look as if he hadn’t been listening; Toribor glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to Drisheen and shrugged.
Drisheen leaned forward and whispered to Toribor, and even with his magically enhanced hearing Arlian could not make out what was said. He turned his attention back to his own party.
“Thank you,” he said to Thirif, who nodded a polite acknowledgment.
Arlian resisted the temptation to turn and watch the others as they whispered; it would only draw suspicion.
“What are you planning?” Rime asked quietly.
“Stonehand will be alone on the road for a few days,” Arlian said. “I can catch him then, talk things over, and deal with him as seems appropriate. As for Drisheen and Toribor, well, as lords, they won’t be sleeping with the others; they’ll either have one room apiece, or one room between the two of them, and we’ll probably be able to tell which because they’ll post a guard at the door. I think I’d like to settle matters with them right here—for Sparkle and Ferret. And Brook and Cricket may be here—if they are, I’d like to free them.”
“So you intend to break into Drisheen’s room?” Black asked.
Arlian nodded.
“And you’ll know which room it is by the guard at the door.”
“That’s right.”
Black nodded. “And how do you plan to get past that guard?” he asked.
“I’m working on that,” Arlian said wryly. “If you have any suggestions, I’d be pleased to hear them.”
“Not a one,” Black said.
“You wanted Shamble, too, didn’t you?” Rime asked.
Arlian shrugged. “He’ll have to wait—which scarcely troubles me, as his crimes are already old, and he holds no hostages. I’d assume he’ll be sharing a room with the other henchmen, and we don’t want to fight them all.”
“Ah, we don’t?” Black said. “I’m glad to hear that. And about getting past that guard?”
“Could you find another way into the room?” Rime asked. “A w
indow, perhaps? Or through the roof?”
“The roof’s good, sound tile,” Arlian said. “I noticed that earlier. How could I get through that? And how would I get to an upstairs window without being seen? How would I get in when it’s shuttered?”
“Excellent questions, all of them,” Black agreed.
Arlian turned to Thirif. “Do you have any suggestions for getting past the guard? Could you put him to sleep, or muffle his cries if he raises an alarm?”
Thirif thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not with what I’ve brought.”
“Maybe if Thirif got Drisheen involved in a discussion of the finer points of sorcery, you could creep up behind him and stab him in the back,” Black suggested sardonically.
“I’m not a mere sorcerer,” Thirif said. “I am a true magician.”
“And how much of a difference is there, really?” Black asked. “You both do your little tricks and petty miracles, waving your jeweled wands about.”
Thirif did not deign to respond to that; he simply turned away in disgust.
Arlian, however, looked at Black thoughtfully. “I don’t know much about sorcery,” he said, “but I suppose most people know even less.”
“Probably,” Black agreed, startled. “What of it?”
“Well, I think I have a way past Drisheen’s guard,” Arlian said.
“Drisheen’s? What about Belly’s?”
“Let’s take care of the one first, shall we?”
Black shrugged.
Three hours later most of the inn’s inhabitants had drifted off to bed. The innkeeper dozed in a chair by the hearth. Arlian and his party had retired to their wagon—but now he reentered the dining room, with Black at his heels.
The innkeeper started awake and stared at him.
Arlian held up a small object that glittered gold in the firelight. “We found this in the stableyard,” he said. “I think that lord must have dropped it. The one with the fancy hat.”
The innkeeper squinted. “I’ll take it,” he said.
Arlian clutched the object to his chest. “I don’t think so,” he said. “We found it, and we’re honest enough to return it—the reward’s ours.”
The innkeeper snorted. “Fine, then.” He waved at the stairs. “Find your own way.” He leaned back.
“I will,” Arlian said.
Together, he and Black crossed the room and started up the stairs.
“I saw Thirif give you that,” Black whispered, “but what is it?”
“I have no idea,” Arlian said, “but it looks magical, doesn’t it?” He held it up so that it shone in the lamplight on the stairs.
The object was a golden cylinder worked with runes and with a ring of small red stones set around one end; Arlian had chosen it from half a dozen implements in Thirif’s collection as looking appropriately sorcerous.
“So you’ll tell the guard you want to return Drisheen’s trinket, and he’ll let you in—but what if he insists we leave our swords outside?”
“Then we’ll find other weapons,” Arlian said. “Shut up and come on.”
They arrived at the top of the stairs and found themselves facing a corridor with three doors on either side, and a door at the far end—and a big man in a guard’s uniform was leaning against the frame of that farthest door, eyes closed, arms folded across his chest.
Arlian felt an odd twinge, and the thing in his hand felt suddenly warm, but he dismissed it as imagination brought on by the excitement of approaching danger.
“That’s their room,” he said. “It must be.”
Black didn’t bother to answer. The two men advanced down the passageway. At the halfway point Arlian felt another twinge, stronger this time, as if his heart had momentarily twisted in his chest. He stopped, but before he could do anything the guard, presumably alerted by the sound of their footsteps, roused himself and dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want here?”
Arlian held up his talisman. “We found this,” he said. “We think one of your lords must have dropped it.”
That twinge troubled him. He had been nervous any number of times—when he was preparing to fight Kuruvan, for one—and he had never felt anything exactly like that before. Usually his hands trembled when he was nervous, but now they were as steady as he might ask.
“Let me see it,” the guard demanded.
Arlian snatched his hand away. “We found it! And we’ll be the ones who collect the reward!”
“You want me to wake Lord Drisheen at this hour of the night?”
“No,” Arlian said meekly. “You’re right; we’ll come back in the morning.”
Black looked at him in open astonishment. “We will?”
“Yes,” Arlian said. “Run!” He spun on his heel and ran for the stairs.
The door at the end of the corridor slammed open, and Arlian ducked as a bow twanged, sending an arrow over his left shoulder.
He and Black tumbled down the stairs, half running, half falling; behind them Arlian heard several voices shouting, doors slamming, and the clatter of boots, bare feet, and armor.
“What the hell…” Black gasped as they dashed across the dining room.
“Wards,” Arlian said. “On the stair and in the hallway. Drisheen knew I was there.”
The innkeeper started up from his chair, shouting, “What? What is it?” They ignored him and ran out the front door; Arlian could hear boots coming down the stairs behind them.
When they were outside Arlian turned toward the yard where the wagon waited. The oxen were not hitched up, he remembered—keeping them yoked would have been too suspicious, should anyone happen to look out a window and see them. And of course, no one could seriously attempt escape in an ox-drawn wagon in any case; men or horses could easily catch up with the fastest oxen.
Still, he had to warn Rime and the Aritheians.
Once that was done, though, he intended to make life interesting for his pursuers. Simple escape on foot was impossible—he didn’t know the countryside, and he couldn’t realistically expect to outrun all his foes—but there were other things he could do.
“See what you can do to protect the others,” Arlian gasped as they rounded the corner. He shouted, “Look out!” then ran past the wagon to the stables.
He opened a stall door at random and grabbed at the mane of the horse inside. He was no horseman, but he had learned a few basics to suit his role as Lord Obsidian; he was able to swing himself up on the animal’s bare back before the beast was entirely awake.
Startled, the horse bolted out of the stall into the yard, then slowed, confused. Arlian sat up and drew his sword; he hung onto his mount’s mane with his left hand.
People were milling about the yard, their faces invisible in the darkness—the inn’s two stablehands were probably there somewhere, and Black, and Arlian’s other companions might be, as well, but there were others who were undoubtedly some of Enziet’s men.
“Light!” someone bellowed. “We need a light!”
“Who’s that?” someone else called.
Arlian dug in his heels, and the horse jerked forward, breaking into a canter; shadowy figures scattered out of his way as Arlian rode out of the stableyard onto the high road.
Someone had relit the lanterns by the inn’s signboard, and a man stood near the door holding a torch; Arlian was plainly visible to the knot of people there as he rode past, and several voices added cries of, “There he is!” and “Get the horses!” to the mounting din. Lights were beginning to appear in the windows of neighboring houses now, as well.
He prodded the horse into a gallop—which meant clinging desperately with both hands, the blade of his sword waving wildly in front of his face—and glanced back over his shoulder.
People were pouring out of both the inn and the stableyard, shouting and running; some were chasing the fleeing horse while others seemed to be running around totally at random.
Arlian hoped this would be enough distraction for Black and the others to find safety somehow. Then he turned his face forward again and buried his nose in the horse’s mane, hanging on for dear life.
The animal slowed to a trot after perhaps two hundred yards, and Arlian raised his eyes. He saw only darkness ahead—a deeper darkness to either side, paler above. As the horse fell into a walk he looked back.
The road had curved; he could see a glow that he knew must be the mob around the inn, but trees and houses hid everything else.
They would undoubtedly be coming after him, though—he could still hear shouting, and it seemed to be coming closer.
Besides, he wasn’t interested in mere escape. They might expect him simply to flee, but it was not what he had planned.
He was heading in the right direction to go after Enziet—but that was exactly the course of action Drisheen probably anticipated from him. Arlian was not ready to go after Enziet; he had unfinished business here in Cork Tree.
He slid from the horse’s back to the ground, landing awkwardly but scrambling quickly to his feet. He slapped the horse’s side, startling it back into a trot; as it continued southward down the high road he turned aside, into the brush beside the road, and once safely out of sight he began working his way back toward the inn.
54
The Sword of Vengeance
Arlian wished he knew enough sorcery to alter his appearance anew, so that he would have neither his own face nor the one his foes had seen in the wagon and the inn. Unfortunately, he had no prepared spells with him, nor any idea how a glamour was cast, and Thirif and Shibiel were not there to help.
As he walked through gardens and yards, climbing over fences and leaping ditches, he did rearrange his hair—in the wagon he had worn it loose, brushed forward at the sides, after the fashion of the local farmers. Now he combed it back with his fingers, and used his swordbreaker to cut away locks on either side, shaping it into something marginally more like a traditional Manfort style—not that he could see what he was doing, in the dark with no mirror. He removed his homespun tunic, revealing the good linen blouse he had worn underneath—not so much because he anticipated a need to change his appearance as because he preferred the feel of the smoother fabric on his skin, the warmth of an additional layer had been welcome, and in his rushed preparations he hadn’t brought any silk undershirts.
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